Page 32 of Gone Tonight
Ever since my mother’s diagnosis, though, it’s like I’m wearingglasses that reveal the darker underside of the world. Now I notice the grime on the floor; the sour smell of old beer; and the bald guy sitting alone in the corner, frowning at his phone. He’s close to my mother’s age, and he’s rail thin. Maybe his genes have turned against him, too. Maybe his hair loss and lack of body fat are due to chemotherapy.
At the sound of my name, I turn my head.
The wide wooden bar between us saves me from having to offer an awkward hug. Ethan leans down and rests on his elbows, so we’re eye to eye. There’s nothing but casual warmth in his expression. It’s the same face he wears to greet loyal customers. That, more than anything he could say, tells me he has moved on.
I’m the one who broke up with him, yet I feel a tinge of regret. Maybe it’s because I haven’t met anyone else, and I’m confident Ethan has. Women seem to love him, in part because he’s masculine without being the slightest bit domineering.
“You look great,” he tells me.
For a moment, I’m grateful I dabbed on lip gloss and outlined my eyes with a coppery brown pencil before I came in.
Then I remind myself I’m here to get information, not flirt with my ex.
Ethan offers me a drink, and I tell him I’ll take a Blue Moon on tap. We chat for another few moments, with Ethan breaking away now and then to mix a gin and tonic or uncap a beer.
I’m in no rush. I sent my mother a text telling her I was seeing a movie with a friend, so she won’t be expecting me home for dinner.
The question I have for Ethan isn’t one I want to casually throw out. I need to study his face while he answers.
But I also want to linger because being around Ethan, back in this old familiar setting, is loosening memories for me. Like this one: When Ethan first met my mom, I thought it went well. He was polite and friendly. He took off his shoes when he came into the apartment without being asked, and he held open the door for me to walk through when we left.
My mother seemed to approve of him. When did that shift?
Ethan and I grew serious quickly. We were opposites in many ways, which made us feel like we fit together well.
Our schedules were opposites, too, and that prevented us from seeing each other more than twice a week or so. But we texted throughout the day and talked on the phone every night, usually when Ethan had a slow moment at work.
My mom asked how I felt about him one morning after I came home from spending the night at his place. She was getting ready for work, and before she walked out the door she paused and asked if Ethan was the kind of guy I could see myself ending up with.
I’d taken it as a sincere inquiry. She wanted to know how much I liked him. My answer was in that spirit, too:It’s too soon to know.
But now it feels like she stuck a splinter under my skin with that question. It made me more attuned to Ethan’s drinking and lack of ambition. It took me out of the present and into the future, when the very qualities I loved in him could turn into liabilities.
My mother had already answered the question for herself. She’d told me so when I broke up with Ethan:Ethan isn’t the kind of guy I want my daughter to end up with.
I know how she viewed Ethan.
It’s finally time for me to glimpse the picture he held of my mother.
A few minutes later, I get my chance. Ethan walks around the bar and slides onto the stool next to mine.
“I know you didn’t just come here for a beer.”
I nod. I’d practiced how to say this on the way here, arranging and rearranging my words, but they still sound stiff. “This was a long time ago, but you and my mom never really hit it off.… I guess I’ve been wondering why you didn’t like her.”
Ethan reaches for my beer and takes a sip, twisting the glass around so his lips are in the exact spot mine touched a minute ago. It feels oddly intimate.
Instead of an answer, he replies with a question.
“Did she mess up another relationship for you?”
My surprise quickly recedes as anger rushes in. My mother hadnothing to do with Ethan getting drunk and failing to show up for our special anniversary dinner. She was right about him all along. He’s still a boy, not a man.
“My mother didn’t—”
He interrupts me. “Ever wonder how convenient it was that your mom happened to have a Russian customer who gave her a bottle of Beluga Gold the same day as our anniversary?”
I’m taken aback. It’s true that in all the years my mother has worked as a waitress, the only gifts customers have given her are tips. But Ethan’s suggestion is ludicrous.
